Moth to Flame
by kface
Summary: Ginny has been dreaming, but she can never remember what of when she awakes. Desperately she pulls together facts about her nighttime lover, but will she be happy when she makes her conclusion? ONESHOT


**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything of the Harry Potter canon, quite obviously in fact. It belongs to JKR, and whoever else holds the copyrights these days.  
  
**Warnings**: Umm, the only thing even worth warning in slight hints of sexuality, which of course no one here has EVER heard of or seen before in our modern societies, right? *snicker*** **No, of course not, never..  
  
**A/N:** This is my first published fic in the second person perspective, so quite sorry if it sucks. I really don't mean it to… obviously, I suppose. There were two reasons I wanted to write second person, one being this story really wouldn't have been nearly as effective in conveying the theme in any other way, and the other being ever since I read the **wonderful** "Gin 'n' Tonic" fic by Lady Macbeth, "Blood and Power", I've just really had an urge to test second person perspective out. I started several times, sometimes with Ginny as protagonist, sometimes not, but when I started this it just flowed. Ginny seems to take well to second person perspective.. Yahh, anyway…  
  
  
  
--*@*--  
  
  
  
You absorb me in spite of myself.  
  
_from a letter written by John Keats, to Fanny Brawne, on 25 July 1819_  
  
  
  
--*@*--  
  
  
  
For the longest time, you could only remember your dreams in fleeting glimpses and rapidly quieting sounds.  
  
You'd wake up breathing hard and flushed pink, but you could never remember why.  
  
During the day you'd close your eyes to escape the frantic pulsation of the world around you, sometimes to catch a flash of dark verdant eyes and long, thick lashes. You'd blink at midday and find full red lips imprinted on your eyelids, a warm and seductive smile gracing your thoughts. Late at night completing one last essay, you'd absently brush back your hair and suddenly remember the feel of soft black locks slipping through your fingers.  
  
Every night you'd pray for a respite from your sordid dreams or even just a bit more information about your nighttime lover. Either would work; you just hated not to know, not to be aware. You were afraid of what you didn't know.  
  
Each morning you'd again wake, your legs entangled in your sheets and sweat making wisps of hair stick to your forehead. You'd remember his soft gasps and tender kisses, but nothing more.  
  
You were attracted to that man in your dreams like a moth to a flame: dead set on achieving your goal, even when you knew you shouldn't, even when you couldn't remember _why_ you shouldn't. You just were, and nothing was going to stop you.  
  
So you pursued your object of affection relentlessly. Each remembered attribute you'd scribble down in a notebook, compiling lists, making comparisons. Every man in your memory you would measure up to those traits, seeking a match. You only found five.  
  
You checked the first one optimistically; you hoped it was him, the best friend of your brother and a genuine sweetheart: what more could you ask for?  
  
Happily you pranced over, plopped yourself beside him on the loveseat, and stole a kiss.   
  
You both pulled away at the same time; he with an expression of bemusement, you with a frown.  
  
"G-gin – _what_?" he stuttered out.  
  
A sad smile and you stood back up.   
  
"Just checking something, Harry."  
  
He wasn't the one. His lips were too thin, his skin too dark. In retrospect, even his eyes were wrong: they were an effervescent emerald, while the ones you were seeking were a dark smoldering shade of green.  
  
The next day you tried another boy. You didn't know him well, but he was in your year and in Hufflepuff. How bad could he be?  
  
After Herbology, you cornered him outside one of the greenhouses and asked to speak to him. You didn't know his name even, and here you were, a predator about to pounce on your prey.  
  
He raised a dark eyebrow at you and smiled a soft smile, urging you to speak, but you just stood there with a hesitant expression on your face, your long red tresses blowing behind you in the breeze.  
  
Finally you smiled back, ran a hand through his hair, and backed away, false smile still planted firmly upon your lips.  
  
Shaking your head slightly, you turned away and walked back towards the school. It wasn't him either. His hair, although black, was course and utterly straight. It didn't have the slight curl of your dream that you had discovered two days prior. He wasn't the one.  
  
Your search wasn't going well. Your list was now narrowed down to three people, one of whom was three years younger, one of whom was an older Slytherin, and one of whom you thought lost forever, in soul anyway.  
  
The next morning you awoke remembering a voice. Automatically you knew it wasn't the third-year: the remembered voice was much too smooth and silky for him. There were two candidates left, and somehow you were afraid of what the day's search would bring.  
  
You were justly afraid.  
  
That night at dinner you surprised the entire school by walking to the Slytherin table and sitting down next to a seventh-year.  
  
The blonde across you spat angrily, his gray eyes flashing silver. He looked dangerous. He reminded you of your dreams, except xanthic.  
  
"What are _you_ doing here, Weasley?" he sneered.  
  
You smiled at him and grabbed a roll, taking a bite of it.   
  
"Eating, Malfoy, and talking."  
  
You turned back to the teenager next to you, who was still looking down at you neutrally.  
  
"I need to speak to you, Zabini."  
  
His face did not change, but he answered back to you and resumed eating his dinner.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
You smiled slightly. His voice matched, smooth and silky and a pleasure to the ears.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He turned to you and raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Care to speak, or do you need a private audience?"  
  
You reached up tentatively and stroked his hair. Again, it matched. It was wavy and smooth and undeniably soft.  
  
You could feel the Hall's eyes on your body, but your hand continued its descent downwards. Tenderly it caressed his bottom lip until he drew it away and kissed the back of your curled fingers, returning it to you.  
  
"I'm sorry, Virginia, but I'm not interested," he said softly, a smile playing on his lips.  
  
You looked up into his eyes – his dark green mysterious eyes – and sent him a questioning look. He had to be the one; it couldn't be the other! You were frantic inwardly, your heart beating loudly in your chest.  
  
He clarified his speech for you, saying softly, "I'm gay, little Weasley. I'm not interested."  
  
Your eyes widened now, and you blushed a light pink.  
  
As you stood, it suddenly sunk in. It is as you feared: the man in your dreams is the only one you can never have.  
  
"You know, Blaise," you said, turning back to him slightly.   
  
You rest your fingers on his sharp right cheekbone and smile wistfully, before you continued to speak.   
  
"You know, you look just like Tom Riddle did at sixteen. You're beautiful, Blaise."  
  
Your words were soft but many of the Slytherin heard and have now dropped their silverware. The name is familiar and they're all wondering how you knew it. Leaning down to plant a light kiss on the boy's forehead, you stood back up and turned to the doors, walking solemnly back to your dormitory.  
  
Your dreams were now a nightmare and all you wanted to do was cry.  
  
That night was the first night you remembered your dreams.  
  
"Hello, Tom," you call, stepping into an old-fashioned bedroom of the nineteen-forties.  
  
He looks up from a parchment at his desk and smiles at you, a radiant smile with kind eyes and soft lips, a lingering sweetness to it you can hardly place.  
  
"Hello, Ginny," he responds, standing up and walking towards you, his voice dripping honey and yet still dark and seductive. "How was your day, dear?"  
  
He is standing in front of you and you meet his eyes, light meeting dark and corresponding beautifully. You walk into his embrace and tuck your head beneath his chin, your fiery locks so stark against his ethereal pale skin.  
  
"It was good, love. I finally finished the experiment."  
  
You can feel him inhale your scent and you bury your head deeper into his robes, smiling contently.  
  
"Oh?" he asks quietly, hardly above a whisper. "And were the results good?"  
  
As you pull away to again meet his eyes, you notice he smells like patchouli and well-loved books. You like that smell.  
  
"From whose perspective?" you murmur, before turning your gaze downward and fluttering your eyelashes closed. "The moths go to the flame _every time_, even when we spell them to have precognitive vision." Your eyes open again but you don't look up. Your speech is soft and pained as you note, "They always die."  
  
He tilts your chin up and kisses you at the junction between your neck and jawbone, right below your ear.  
  
"It's a fatal attraction, dear. Nothing can change it and nothing should."  
  
He works your robes open some and suckles at your collarbone, making you tilt your head back, forget your troubles, and bury a hand in his soft, silky hair.  
  
The dream faded to black and you woke up alone in your bed. It was still dark out and your dorm mates were sleeping.  
  
You were not gasping for breath.  
  
You were not flushed.  
  
You were not even tangled in your sheets, warm and sweaty.  
  
But you could remember your dream, and you did, and you buried your head in your pillow sobbing, tears running down your face and air catching in your throat.  
  
Because you can never have what you dream of.  
  
Because he absorbs you in spite of yourself, in spite of he himself, in spite of _everything_, and you can't change that.  
  
Because it's a fatal attraction, and you'd give _anything_ to be back in your dreams, for that to be reality, to never wake up.  
  
And you know that can never happen, even with magic.  
  
And it never will.  
  
So you cry.  
  
  
  
--*@*--  
  
  
  
But we, when moved by deep feeling, evaporate; we breathe ourselves out and away;  
from moment to moment our emotion grows fainter, like a perfume.  
Though someone may tell us: "Yes, you've entered my bloodstream, the room,  
the whole springtime is filled with you . . ."—what does it matter? He can't contain us,  
we vanish inside him and around him.  
And those who are beautiful, oh who can retain them?   
  
_from the Second Elegy, of the Duino Elegies, by Ranier Maria Rilke_  
  
  
  
--*@*--  
  
  
  
Please review. I appreciate any and all feedback..


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